When In Rome
by demonsfearme
Summary: What do you do with an unruly slave in Ancient Rome who refuses to be broken? Put him in the arena.
1. Prologue: The Lines

_Author's Notes: 'Sup guys. This is my epic of epic proportions. Or something like that. IDEK. Anyway. First off, some things you should know._  
_This is historically based, however not always historically accurate for fiction sake. (however will be very dang close) It will also be on the mature side for various reasons. You can't have a setting in ancient Rome without gratuitous sex and violence, now can you?_  
_This is predominately a **GermaniaxRome fic,** however there will be the pairings of RomexMamaGreece, GermaniaxMamaGreece, and RomexMamaEgypt in there. I also use head cannon human names for all of the characters in this story, and I'll list them at the top of each chapter, just for reference. Hope you all enjoy!_

_Germania - Ansehelm_  
_Rome - Aeneas_  
_MamaGreece - Hypatia_

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**Prologue: The Lines**

It was raining on the day the Lines came. The goddess was mourning her children.

He remembered watching them gather in the east, just before dawn. Their torches flickered in the early morning dark. The flames refused to be doused by the goddess's tears. It was a symbol of the Lines' defiance. Their intention couldn't have been clearer. The sound of their armor and weapons echoed through the valley as they moved. It was steady and rhythmic, like the buzzing of bees in their swarms just before they stung. But they instilled a worse kind of fear.

Romans. That's what the other tribes had called them. Perhaps it's what the Lines called themselves. They had pushed over the mountains in their perfectly organized mass, and one by one, the Lines swallowed the western tribes. Those that survived congregated in the valley for refuge. His people had taken the survivors in, promising them safety, a promise they couldn't keep. Now, the Lines were here. And the goddess was weeping. She knew their fate.

The echoes grew louder. They began to drown out the sound of the rain hitting the ground around him. And the torches grew closer.

He could feel his rage mounting.

The battle itself was little more than a blur. The moment the Lines arrived he and his people were there to meet them. He had lost count of how many of those "Romans" fell to his blade, or beneath his arrows. They kept coming in their unrelenting Lines. And as they came, he would keep cutting. And he would keep firing. He would keep fighting.

He didn't remember the blow that caused him to fall to his knees. He didn't remember the arrow that pierced his leathers and embedded itself between his ribs. All he remembered was the muddy ground coming to catch him, and the darkness' embrace.


	2. Chapter 1: Ansehelm

_Author's Notes: Germania - Ansehelm, Rome - Aeneas, MamaGreece - Hypatia_  
_Pairing this chapter: None_

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**Ch. 1: Ansehelm**

Consciousness ignited like a fire in his brain. It was a painful fire, and it seared through his entire being without mercy. It drew a cry from his throat, and even that act alone was agonizing.

Blue eyes opened and they gazed through a red haze at the grey sky. He could feel the rain splash against his skin. The cool droplets were a welcome alternative to the burning pain coursing through his body. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue, and filled his mouth.

It took a great deal of effort to roll to his side, as his body was still weak. He spat twice. Blood mixed with the mud and water that pooled next to him. He watched it swirl and ripple as he struggled to steady his breathing.

A glance downward betrayed the source of his hurt. It was an arrow, well crafted at that. And it had served its purpose well. If its fletcher knew that this creation was lodged in a man's chest, he or she might have experienced a moment of pride. However, it would have been one short lived, as it had not killed its target.

And for that, he thanked the god and goddess. Carefully, he took the protruding shaft in his hands, and with another exclamation, mixed with pain and effort, he snapped it.

His own voice joined what might have been a chorus. There were screams of pain, moans of the dying, and yells in a foreign yet unmistakable tongue. And then there was a name. It rang above all other sounds, over and over again. It was his name. "Ansehelm! Ansehelm!"

That voice. He knew that voice! A renewed surge of adrenaline surged through him. It dulled the pain, and gave him a newfound source of energy. His eyes darted back and forth, searching. He found feet moving past him. Some were sandaled, some booted, others bare, others furred. All of them were caked with mud and blood. They weaved in and out of the labyrinth of crumpled bodies. Though none of them belonged to whom he sought.

Again, his name floated over all else, "Ansehelm!" It was half shrieked.

Perhaps it was that very urgency that drew Ansehelm to his feet, and with surprising speed. Blonde hair fell in waterlogged clumps against his face as he whipped his head about searching desperately for the source of his name. His mind was frantic with the thought _where is she… where is she…?_ She was alive, that was for certain. How else could she call his name?

Chaos, utter chaos; that was the only way to describe his village now. The dead and dying littered the ground, people, horses, dogs, and livestock. It seemed that nothing was spared in the bloodshed, men and women, his tribesmen, and Romans alike. So many Romans… Those Romans still standing were herding those surviving of his people toward the center of the decimated village like sheep. They were frightened and angry sheep, and the Romans were cruel, cruel shepherds.

Ansehelm spotted her in the flock. She was reaching for him when she was not slamming fist and foot against Roman face and chest. And she was calling for him when she was not snapping her teeth at exposed Roman flesh. Every step she made forward, she was forced two steps back. Her eyes locked on his, and in that instant, her struggling became more frenetic. She downed one. Another grappled her to the ground. She shrieked, the sound akin to the banshees in the night.

Ansehelm didn't remember moving. His rage clouded any recollection. However, his feet managed to carry him with a newborn strength, all pain forgotten. His hands were closing around a Roman throat, with his cracked fingernails digging into the skin like claws. He could feel the man's throat tighten as an outcry of shock caught there, beneath Ansehelm's hands. But he felt himself being pulled away. He raked his fingers against the man's neck as they lost their grasp. The ground was spiraling toward him once more, but he did not meet it. Somehow, by will of the goddess, he kept his footing, and swung to collide his hand with a Roman jaw. Again he swung, and again. Each blow connected with something, flesh and armor. He wouldn't let them take his lover. And he would not be herded.

That neglected pain ripped through his body again. It crippled him, and his legs gave out. Ansehelm fell forward, and slumped against the soldier who twisted the stubbed arrow still jutting from his rib cage. The Roman murmured something. He couldn't understand it, but the smug grin on the man's face made Ansehelm want to tear it from his skull. Ad he would have, if he could muster the strength again.

The soldier released the arrow. Ansehelm fell to his knees, his hand moving instinctively to his injury. Blood seeped from the agitated wound, coating his already dirty fingers.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the soldier raise something, club or sword, he wasn't sure. But someone stopped him. The word uttered was harsh, and commanding. The soldier obeyed, whatever was said, and let his weapon return to his side.

A third Roman stepped forward. His armor was more ornate, signifying a higher rank within the Lines. His cape draped over one shoulder, tattered and soaked with rain, mud, blood, and probably other things. He fixed his gaze on Ansehelm as he sat there hunched and panting. And this man spoke. He spoke in Ansehelm's language. His accent was thick, but he was understood. "He wants to live badly enough he'll fight for it. We reward that, not punish it." The Roman allowed a glance at his subordinate, a sort of smile on his full lips. He then said something else, something that Ansehelm couldn't understand, and walked away. That soiled red cape fluttered in his wake.

The soldier dragged Ansehelm upward, and resumed his herding.

Ansehelm could not protest further, despite how much he yearned to. He knew it would be in vain. His wrists were bound tightly. He was shoved in makeshift cages with his people, and surviving animals. Hardened blue eyes found that commander again, crimson cloak and all. And they burned the image of the man's face in his mind, so he would not forget the man who took everything from him. Everything but his life.


	3. Chapter 2: Aeneas

_Author's Notes: Germania - Anshelm, Rome - Aeneas, MamaGreece - Hypatia_  
_Pairings in this chapter: RomexMamaGreece_

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Ch. 2: Aeneas**

Aeneas Iulius Maximus. It was a rather pretentious name. And it was unclear just who his parents were making a jab towards, their son himself, or society. However, it was a name he lived up to. His military prowess was unrivaled, and at such a young age. A victory? A successful conquest? It was tied to his name. Sometimes, he'd even claim those of his namesake. Of course, this was followed by boisterous and good-natured laughing. All jests aside, there were very few souls in Rome or its branches that did not know Aeneas's name, or of his accomplishments.

It was just another one of those accomplishments that had been circulating through the streets of Rome days before his troops had returned to the city. And of course, their return was cause for celebration, in Aeneas's name.

The feast was nothing too terribly extravagant, at least, by Roman standards. And that just meant the festivities were contained to the building in which the feast was being held. Aeneas wouldn't have anything more.

"Only when I conquer all of Germania," he would say, "then all of the Roman Empire can celebrate!" Some say this made him humble. Aeneas would say it made him confident. And anyone who knew Aeneas would know the man was anything but modest.

The laughing and conversation was so loud that one could barely hear the music, if the musicians hadn't abandoned all hope and decided to mingle instead. Bodies packed inside so tightly there was barely room to move, much less breathe. But the people managed. A small party may have been the intention, however everyone wanted to congratulate the famous commander, despite whether or not they were invited. What a treat just to be in his presence, and he was sure to be at his own celebration.

Then again, such was to be expected with his reputation. And it pleased Aeneas nevertheless.

A smile curled his full lips as he watched his soldiers and the others bustle and socialize. He had to admit, it made him feel like the Emperor on his throne.

Aeneas raised his goblet to his lips, but the motion quickly turned his smile into a frown when he found it devoid of wine. He must have finished it without realizing. His rather pensive frowning into the depths of his goblet did not go unnoticed. It was swiped from his grasp by a rather bright, and busty young woman.

Her grin was wide, and she leaned forward oh-so-provocatively. "Shall I get you some more wine, sir?" She asked, a slight purr in her tone.

Aeneas couldn't help but mimic her expression, and his dark eyes took in what she presented, and quite unchecked at that. "Oh, how kind of you." And he watched her walk away with that sway in her hips. It made him take a mental note to find her again. Later.

It was a note that was soon to be forgotten when another woman caught his attention, a woman whose beauty was comparable to Venus herself. She moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her gaze locked on Aeneas's. The expression upon her face was soft, but something impish lurked in those deep green eyes.

Aeneas straightened, but she stood in front of him before he could rise to his feet. "Hypatia!" He spoke her name with a sort of fondness reserved for those held most dear. And it was not a tone that many heard in their direction. "My Grecian beauty…" He stretched his arms out to meet her.

It was a gesture that Hypatia did not return. Her hands remained on her wide hips, and her lips curled into a faint smirk. "I understand that this celebration is in hour honor, Aeneas. Though I should hope that you have not forgotten what you have said to be more important."

The broad, toothy grin on Aeneas's mouth became suddenly sheepish. One hand moved to idly massage the back of his neck while the other fell to his side.

Hypatia continued. "Being your wife, I would appreciate it if I were the first to know of your return, and not find out when I am invited to a banquet for you two days later." Her expression remained somewhat jovial, however the underlying tone in her voice conveyed her displeasure.

Aeneas extended a hand once more, and this time she took it. Hypatia allowed him to draw her beside her. A lock of dark hair was tucked behind one ear, and she adjusted the skirts of her stola in order to better accommodate her new position.

"Sorry, love," Aeneas apologized, his voice genuine, "You know how crazy things can be when I come home. Barely have time to think." Hypatia's hand was brought to his mouth, and he laid a gentle kiss to the back. "However, I have plenty of time to think of you now."

Hypatia briefly returned her gaze to the crowd around them, before glancing once more in her husband's direction. "Are you thinking of me?" she inquired, a dark brow lofted, "Or are you thinking of younger women who refill wine goblets?" That smirk on her rosy lips twitched broader. For a brief moment, Aeneas's smile faltered. So, she'd noticed that, had she? And that sheepish tinge made Hypatia all the more smug. "So I see."

"It was a fleeting thought." Aeneas grumped, turning his rather childish pout to the crowd before them. And he was silent for a moment. That pout waned only slightly, even as he spoke, "It's just been so long that I've been able to rest my eyes on anything remotely comparable to your beauty…" His thumb began to massage small circles on the back of Hypatia's hand as he craned his neck to the side to gaze at her. That frown had been turned completely upside down, replaced with a grin that was oh so wide. "But even she couldn't hold a candle to your radiance…"

Hypatia rolled her eyes. "Pretty words, Aeneas. Pretty words."

Again, he pulled her hand to his lips. "Then how else should I make it up to you?"

She didn't need to look at him to know just what sort of gleam his eyes held. It was as if she could see the spark out of her peripheral vision. But Hypatia couldn't help it. Slowly, she turned to lock gazes with him and those deep brown eyes looked back at her in the way she had expected. It always brought a blush to her cheek, no matter how many times he looked at her like that. "…Here?"

"Why not?" And he tugged on her hand. The next thing Hypatia knew, they were weaving through the throng. Her head was spinning. Couldn't it wait? People were bound to notice if the man they were celebrating wasn't there any longer. Then again, no one would care, would they? They'd just infer. At least no one would try to come find them. What a silly thought. All those orgies, and she was worried about a voyeur?

The cold stone of the wall was suddenly at her back, and Aeneas's mouth was at her neck. In that instant she melted, and all of her previous worries were forgotten. For the moment anyway.

Aeneas pressed against her, his hands fumbling with the clasps of her stola. He never remembered clothes being this difficult before. He kissed her deeply, trying to distract her from his rather clumsy maneuvers as he attempted to undress her. After all, she'd already managed to slide his toga from around him. Not that it was that hard to do. Finally, he became frustrated enough to stoop down and lift the hem of the skirt. He drew his tongue along the inside of her thigh as he slid the cloth up her legs, the motion slow and deliberate, as if to make up for all the time he'd wasted to begin with.

Hypatia shivered. Her hands moved to tangle in his auburn curls. They looped around her fingers to hold her there. A soft giggle left her lips as she felt him begin to nuzzle her leg, the long stubble on his cheeks tickling her. "So you missed me, hmm?" She purred, fingers massaging his scalp.

"Mmhmm…" It was all Aeneas managed to murmur as he kissed up the groove of her hip. But Hypatia's gasp, mixed with the sudden too harsh pull on his hair made him stop. "Ow." He said plainly, gazing up at her with an expression that more than adequately conveyed his annoyance.

"Someone's coming…" Hypatia whispered.

Aeneas's halfhearted scowl deepened. "And that matters…?" A harsh smack was laid right between his eyes. It left him seeing stars for a brief moment. "Ow!" Though the second he could see and think straight again, he found that as usual, Hypatia was right.

The footsteps that resounded through the atrium were heavy, erratic, and seemed somewhat labored. However, their approach was steady. Aeneas and Hypatia remained still for a moment, listening. And the grin that began to return to Aeneas's lips caused Hypatia to smack him once more.

"Would you stop that?" He hissed a whisper.

"Would you?" Her retort was equally displeased, and just as hushed. The footsteps were louder now. And Hypatia could see the source of them hobble out from behind a pillar. "Stand up…!"

Aeneas refused. This was either out of his stubbornness, or the fact curiosity had taken control. He too, looked in the direction in which their interruption came from.

It was a man. Well, of course anyone could see that it was a man, and a slave at that, judging by the dirty tunic he wore. His feet were bare, and similarly filthy, and they scuffed along the stone pathway. He balanced a rather large, ceramic barrel of wine on his back, his body leaned forward in order to better support it. Long blonde hair obscured the man's face, and the small braids scattered through out swung with every step.

Aeneas watched him, almost quizzically. The man was visibly limping, favoring his right side. That explained the heavy, almost dragging quality of his steps. Yet, there was no indication of a wound on either of the man's legs. It was then a sort of realization swept over the Roman. Aeneas stood, all previous intentions forgotten, and began to follow that golden haired slave.

"Aeneas!" Hypatia called after him. He wasn't listening. This was nothing new, but it didn't stop her from trying.

"You there!" Aeneas commanded, his voice reverberating off the walls, "Wine toter person!" He swore he heard the sound of Hypatia's palm meeting her forehead.

The slave didn't stop. He kept moving, almost deliberately. Perhaps he was trying to be defiant.

But Aeneas was a persistent man. He called again, but this time in the blonde's own language. "I'm talking to you slave! You will answer me."

The slave hesitated, though continued his awkward lumbering. "I don't answer to you," he replied, his voice even.

Cheeky individual, wasn't he? It brought a smile to Aeneas's face. It seemed the man's first impression held true. "Tell me then, who is your master? So I may find him, and then you will have to answer to him. Or, you could just spare the wasted time. That wine is for me anyways, I'm sure. Celebration in my name, after all." Aeneas moved toward the man, and ignored Hypatia's protests.

Finally, the blonde man halted. The barrel was slid from his back. It hit the path with a rather loud clank. And he turned to face the Roman who addressed him, not looking pleased in the slightest. Then again, anyone would be in a sour mood when they were forced to carry heavy and cumbersome objects while still healing from a large, and deep puncture wound in their side. That glare of disdain seemed to amplify the moment his blue eyes locked on Aeneas's form. …So it was -him-. "If it's for you," he said simply, his tone as flat as before, "then you can have it." The slave hoisted the barrel into his arms with a grunt mixed with effort and a tinge of pain, and stepped toward Aeneas. The contents of the barrel were then emptied right on top of the grinning Roman.

Aeneas sputtered. In truth, he was stunned. He had never before witnessed a slave with such audacity, much less toward him. It left him standing there, dazed for a moment, dripping in red wine. It was the clink of the ceramic barrel rolling to hit the fountain in the middle of the atrium that finally cleared his mind. And that shock gave way to another set of emotions. The man had long disappeared into one of the corridors leading from the atrium. He had left Aeneas there in a puddle of wine, his shoulders heaving with angered breaths, and an odd look on his face that could only be described as a mix between a scowl and a smile. Aeneas was furious, of course. But he had to admit he was impressed. Very impressed. This blonde brute had nerve, such nerve. Ansehelm. That was his name wasn't it? At least, that's what that barbarian woman had been screaming at him.

Hypatia was at his side quickly. "Aeneas!" she exclaimed, and used her thumbs to wipe trails of wine from her husband's eyes. "Are you alright? I should have that man's head for this. I'll find his master and make sure he's dealt with accordin-"

"No." Aeneas stopped her, his voice firm, "Find his master, yes. And thank him for the gift. But that man… That man's ass is mine."


	4. Chapter 3: Cages

_Author's Notes: Derp Derp. Last chapter for now. Glad you made it this far, actually. Flattered, is more like it. Should have chapter four up...eventually. Did I mention I'm a procrastinator?_

_Germania - Ansehelm, Rome - Aeneas, MamaGreece - Hypatia_  
_Pairings in this chapter: None_

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**Chapter 3: Cages**

Animals were kept in cages. But to call this dark, cramped, and filthy cell a cage was putting it far too lightly. This place wasn't fit for animals. Even they deserved far better. This place was reserved for criminals. They were less than human, and less than animal.

Ansehelm stared at the wall opposite him, his gaze intense, despite the fact only the rats at his feet would notice it. The mortar was flaking in places, creating foreboding patterns. Water dripped from the cracks in the ceiling, no doubt from the sewers that let into the room the guards called the "Tiber." And they had no qualms about letting him know that was where he was going next. However decaying the walls seemed, they held strong. Ansehelm couldn't tear through them, even if he tried. And even if there were the possibility, there was still the issue of the heavy chains wrapped about his wrists and ankles. They had rubbed his flesh raw over the course of the days he had spent sitting in waste, and gods-knew-what, awaiting his fate.

He was going to die. He was sure of it. They didn't send him down to this hellhole for any other purpose. But like everything else he did, he wasn't going to let them take him down easily.

Ansehelm had made quite the name for himself in his few months of enslavement as the most unruly and potentially dangerous slave in all of Rome, or at least one of them. The more trouble he caused, the more they were determined to break him. He would be an example. But Ansehelm continued to make an example out of his Roman oppressors instead, and the harder they whipped and beat him, the worse he became. His name was spoken with such poison around his master's household, even by his fellow slaves. They too were punished for his misdeeds. Ansehelm didn't care. He hated them as much as he hated the Romans. He hated their cowardice, and spinelessness, and how they crumpled and bowed beneath Roman sandals. It was disgusting.

He'd had his hands around his master's throat only nights before, thumbs pressing against the man's windpipe. The garbled sounds of his choking muffled by Ansehelm's fist in his mouth still rang in the Germanic's memory. And if the man hadn't thrashed and struggled so much, alerting who was sleeping next to him, Ansehelm might have succeeded.

It was no wonder they caged him like an animal.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. They were hurried and unsure. He knew whom they belonged to. The slave girl who brought him food day after day couldn't seem to get over her fears of the dark, damp hellhole, despite descending into it on a regular basis. Who sent her, Ansehelm didn't know. He didn't have friends, or any remaining family that he knew of. And it sure as hell wasn't the man who forced him to call him master.

She was an unfamiliar girl. Ansehelm knew every face and name of the fellow slaves he'd shared a household with, and she wasn't one of them. And she was so very young. Dirt and grime smudged her legs, arms and face, and lined the edge of her tunic. Even still, she looked as pristine as polished white marble in comparison to the man who sat in the cell before her.

She watched him from her safe distance on the other side of the bars. Those cold blue eyes stared back at her, almost unblinking. Her knuckles paled as she gripped the wooden makeshift tray on which she carried her offering. Ansehelm knew what was going through her mind. He could see it in her eyes, and it never changed.

This man was a monster, dangerous and unpredictable. He attacked overseers without provocation, so they said, and with animalistic ferocity. He was left to rot in this cell for attempting to viciously and ever inhumanely murder his master. Not to mention, this was the slave that had the audacity to publicly humiliate the great Aeneas Maximus. Yes, Ansehelm's reputation had preceded him. He wasn't complaining, really.

But he was rather annoyed that she insisted on staring. Every single time.

Finally, the girl stepped forward. Ansehelm shifted, and the chains scraped against the stone floor. It caused her to stop again. She was trembling faintly. And Ansehelm found it rather pathetic. The urge to toy with her overcame him, but he swallowed it down. She moved forward again, ever tentative. She stooped and reached her hands through the bars to rest the bread and bowl of water on the floor. She didn't linger any longer. In fact she moved as quickly as possible, her pace nearly a run.

Of course she'd run. If she didn't get out of there quickly, he would miraculously break his restraints, and meld through the bars like the malicious spirit he was, and wring her neck. Ansehelm grit his teeth as he watched the girl flee from him. She was just as pathetic as the rest of them. But she kept coming. It was either out of fear of her master, or perhaps she somewhere deep in her heart admired him. It didn't matter. Either way, he was alone again.

His solitude didn't last long. The smell of food drew a rat from its hiding place in the wall. It skittered along the filthy floor, and darted around the puddles to the best of its ability. Ansehelm watched it through his matted and dirty curtain of blonde hair. The rat circled the bread and the water, inspecting it. He stared on as it took a morsel and scurry away faster than it had appeared.

There were footsteps down the hallway once more. The notion that the slave girl had a sudden stroke of bravery and wanted to look the caged monster in the eye was short lived. These footsteps were heavier, and more confident, and they were soled. A Roman no doubt, soldier or guard was coming to make sure the animal was in its rightful place. Only a Roman could walk with so much pride it was reflected in the sounds of his footsteps. And they came to a halt outside of his cell.

"You're looking well," the voice that reached Ansehelm's ears made him tense, and his teeth grind together. There was only one Roman man he knew of who could speak his language so eloquently and fluent. Ansehelm found himself suddenly pining for that gawking coward of a slave girl instead. Hell, he would have even preferred his master, the bastard. Anyone except Aeneas Maximus, who now stood on the other side of those iron bars.

"You should thank me, Ansehelm," Aeneas spoke again. Ansehelm wouldn't look at him, but he could hear that smug, sickening grin in the commander's voice. "Ansehelm… that's a strong name," Aeneas mused, "Not Latin. But then again, neither is mine. I suppose that bonds us in someway. Kindred spirits."

He paused. When Ansehelm didn't respond, he continued. "I like it. It suits you. It must have some sort of special meaning. What _does_ it mean, anyway?"

Ansehelm still did not reply. In truth, he had stopped paying attention to Aeneas once the man suggested his gratitude. If there was anything that Ansehelm had learned about famed conqueror, it was that he talked too much for his own good. It was just one of the many things Ansehelm hated about him.

This very idea seemed to pass through Aeneas's mind at the same exact moment. "Tangent! Sorry." He piped, and ran a hand through his curls before placing it on one of the bars before him. "As I was saying. You should be thanking me."

He repeated the request. This time, Ansehelm did react. However it was a mere tilt of his head, and a cutting glance of those harsh blue eyes in Aeneas's direction. But that was all it took to demand an explanation.

"For I may have just spared your life. Being that you can prove yourself, of course." That grin was wide, toothy, and pompous. Ansehelm wanted to rip it from the Roman's face. "But I have no doubt of that."

The blonde man remained quiet, and his gaze continued to bore into Aeneas.

"A fight," Aeneas shifted, "You like fights, don't you? Of course you do. I've watched you." That stupid smile softened slightly. It resembled one a father might give a son he was proud of. And it was curious expression to be cast toward him. It made Ansehelm furrow his brows and set his jaw. "You win this fight, and you're free."

Free. That word struck a chord. Ansehelm turned to fully look at the man, skepticism lining his features. "Free," he repeated, the doubt carried even in his voice. "Liar."

Aeneas's grin broadened back into that toothy display. "I have no reason to you."

"And you have no reason to be truthful, either." Ansehelm spat the retort.

"No need to get snippy. I'm doing you a favor," a shrug rippled the Roman man's broad shoulders. "Which is probably more than I should be doing, considering… But I think I've taken a liking to you. You've got spirit, and I respect that. So, Ansehelm. You can either take my words as truth, fight to your true potential, and live. Or you can call me a liar and die in the arena. It's your choice. But if you have as much pride as you seem to be exerting, I'd go with the former." With that, Aeneas pushed away from the bars, and straightened the fabric of his tunic and toga. "You might want to eat that. Need to keep your strength up, after all, if you're going to be worth anything." He gestured to the bread and water still sitting at the foot of the bars. "And there's more where it came from. I think the girl I've been sending is coming around to you." Aeneas turned on his heel. "I enjoyed this chat with you. We should do this more often."

Ansehelm moved to the bars as Aeneas took his leave. He scooped the hunk of bread into his hand and was poised to throw it down the dank hallway after him. But he didn't. Instead, he stared at it for a long moment. With a heaved sigh that was lost amongst the dark quiet of his cell, he ate.

Aeneas Maximus was right. And Ansehelm was so loathe to admit it.


	5. Chapter 4: The Colosseum

_Author's Notes: First off, I'd like to apologize for how long this chapter took for me to finish. I was writer's blocking for a while, finally got past it. I also want to thank everyone who has left a reveiw, or added this to their favorites! I really appreciate it, and am glad you guys enjoy it. The Ancients need more love._

_Historical Note: The Greeks actually looked down on the Roman practice of arena and gladiator sports. They felt it was barbaric. this explains Hypatia's attitude.  
_

_Germania - Ansehelm, Rome - Aeneas, MamaGreece - Hypatia_  
_Pairings in this chapter: RomexMamaGreece  
_

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**Ch. 4: The Colosseum**

Ansehelm dreamed that night. Or that day. He wasn't sure just when it was that he had fallen asleep. For all he knew, and for all he cared, two days could have passed, or merely two hours. The flow of time was something foreign to the prison's perpetually dark hallways. Everything just seemed still.

But he dreamed. And it was perhaps the first time he'd dreamed since he'd been forced to Rome. So many dreamless nights had left him wondering if they were still possible. It was a wonderful dream, and oh so tangible. Perhaps the goddess hadn't forsaken him.

Home. He was home. The hills rolling before him lay lush and green, untouched by Roman hands or feet. They rippled and grew into the snow-capped mountains in the distance. And he saw here there atop the crest of one of those green hills, wind whipping at her dark hair. Her eyes were set and focused, ever vigilant on the flock of peacefully grazing sheep that surrounded her. He could hear the grass as it bowed under his boots. He could feel the sun kiss his skin.

This was real. That cold, lifeless cell was just a bad dream. It had all just been a bad dream he couldn't wake up from. Just a few more steps and he'd be able to wrap his wife in his arms, press her pretty head to his chest, and forget the nightmare. And just as his hand stretched out to rest upon her shoulder, the world shattered. The sound of metal scraping against stone cut through his consciousness, and served only to remind him that the nightmare was reality, and home was just a fleeting fantasy anymore.

Voices sounded through the corridor, loud and ever obnoxious. Then again, the Roman tongue had never been a sound he was fond of. There were at least two of them, three he was betting, and yet they made the racket of at least twenty. If the sound of the gate being pried open hadn't woken him, then the noise the approaching guards were making surely would have. Damn Romans. They took everything, didn't they? Even dreams.

It was only when those voices reached just outside his cell that Ansehelm bothered to open his eyes. He was right. There were three. The first yelled something at him, and gripped the bars of the cell door. The two that flanked his side merely sneered. Of course, Ansehelm couldn't understand the orders thrown at him, but he could infer them. Even then it didn't mean he would cooperate. At least, the first time. So he continued to lay on the wet and filthy floor, feigning sleep.

Again he was yelled to, and the bars to the cell rattled. He heard the others chuckle, and that was when he shifted.

Ansehelm sat upright and leaned backward against the wall. He cast a half-hearted glare at the guards who continued to heckle him in their garbled language. The tone became gradually more commanding, and angry. Slowly, Ansehelm stood. It was partially out of spite, and partially for the fact his muscles had become so stiff from days of just sitting and lying that they wouldn't permit him to move much faster. It caused a slight grimace to cross his features.

With a rock of his broad shoulders, Ansehelm found himself face to face with the trio of sneering guards, and the fact that they had to look upward to meet his gaze didn't seem to faze them at all. Physical height meant nothing. He was still beneath them.

The guard on the leader's left stepped forward and unlocked the cage that held Ansehelm prisoner. The guard on the right tensed, as if he expected the brutish blonde to lunge and make a break for freedom. But Ansehelm didn't, and he merely scoffed at the reaction.

Oh, he could have easily escaped them. That cocky son of a bitch in the middle would have been the easiest to overcome. The bastard was too full of himself to follow his partner's example and brace himself. But Ansehelm wouldn't. He was too cautious. Sure, he could best these three fools, but once he was past the prison gate, who knew?

He was forced forward, and the unexpected shove caused him to stumble slightly. His muscles protested the movement with a dull ache. And this was how his ascent to the outside world began, and how it would continue. He was pushed and shoved while their voices rang in his ears.

Another stumble and they broke to the surface. The light of the sun burned Ansehelm's eyes, and caused his pupils to contract at a painful rate to adjust to the sudden brightness. He was blinded for the first few moments as he was dragged through the streets of Rome. His stumbling increased, and he could barely register his own feet beneath him and the road they tread.

Where were they taking him? Aeneas's words echoed in his mind. Fight, survive… free. His release from the prison could only be related. But it didn't mean the confusion disappeared.

Faces gazed at him as he passed, and many of them held in their eyes a sort of foreboding sympathy, as if they knew more than he about the fate he was being ushered toward. They were faces, much like his own, the faces of slaves. Ansehelm's brows knitted in an expression that had come to cross his face frequently as of late. And he couldn't stop his lip from curling in a sort of scowl as they'd turn their backs to him, carrying about their business in the sparsely populated streets.

It was strange to see the city so... empty.

The Flavian Amphitheater loomed before them. The center of Rome, it had come to be known. He knew of this building. Then again, who didn't? There wasn't a soul in Rome, slave or otherwise, who was ignorant of the amphitheater and its many purposes. But to those of the lower echelon, like himself, it was something to be feared, and something so enigmatic.

The closer Ansehelm and his escorts drew to the structure, the more it seemed to taunt him. It was becoming clearer that the amphitheater was their destination. It held all the answers his poor confused mind kept posing. And it would answer them all, but only when he was within it's walls.

With the rest of Rome. The clamor of congregated voices rose into the air, betraying why the city was so barren.

Fight. Survive. Freedom.

One by one, things were beginning to fall into place. He release, the stares of those left in the streets, the crowded Colosseum, and Aeneas's promise. Ansehelm snorted, and gave a tug on his restraints.

The Romans had a curious idea of sport. Not that his own people were too much better on that account, but it caused Ansehelm to kick himself mentally for not coming to the conclusion sooner. It had been their goal from the beginning to make an example of him, and what better way to do it than through one of their gruesome games? It might even kill him in the process. Wouldn't that be grand? No one would have to deal with him any more. Not to mention it would prove their point. Become one of them, or know your place. That's what they were hoping anyway.

The guards led him through the first of those grand archways before they veered him from the main corridors, where patrons still flooded. He didn't remember just how long or how far they dragged him through dimly lit hallways, nor did he try to decipher the cacophony of sounds reverberating through the holding chambers. His mind was elsewhere. Even as they closed the bars of his new cage, Ansehelm was wondering just how he was going to make it out of this, if Aeneas would actually honor his word, and just which one of those annoying smiles was curling the commander's lips.

Though Ansehelm couldn't see it, Aeneas was indeed, grinning broadly. The roar of voices, all speaking at once, continued to resound through the Colosseum, and it made Aeneas's grin even broader. His hand gripped Hypatia's as she shifted beside him, and laced their fingers.

"Exciting, isn't it?" he asked, tilting his head to gaze at his wife.

Hypatia did not mirror his expression. In fact, she didn't even look at him. Her green eyes remained fixed on the arena floor and its currently undisturbed sand, full lips drawn in a straight line.

Aeneas twisted his body to garner more of her attention, and lean in closer. "You can feel it almost. Like a tingling." He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, grin still prominent. "I love it."

Hypatia's expression remained unchanged. "It's barbaric," she replied simply. Aeneas's smile faltered, and she could tell he was offended. "Uncouth, then. You know how I feel about this. Stop trying to get me to enjoy it."

"And how do you feel about it?" Aeneas asked, a slight bite to the edge of his words, "Please remind me again."

Hypatia answered, not wavering under the tone her husband's voice carried. "It's unnecessary and garish. Just because I dislike your people's sport, Aeneas, does not mean I am disrespecting you. I'm sitting at your side, despite my aversion to these games, and that should be proof enough. Don't take it so personally."

Aeneas rolled his eyes and leaned backwards. He tore his gaze from Hypatia, and followed the line her gaze made to the arena floor. "I'm starting to wonder if I should keep you in check, as I'm suggested."

He felt her hand gently brush his knee. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes, even more than the words that followed. "I am 'in check'. I just speak my mind more freely when just in your company. Would you have it any other way? And I suppose you'd love me less if I ever changed."

A sort of sigh left the Roman's mouth in a reluctant agreement.

Hypatia continued before he could reply. "Go find your champion. I'm sure they've brought him here already, and I know you are so desperate to greet him. He's all you can talk about since he doused you in wine."

"I'm having trouble discerning the sincerity from sarcasm in your voice, love," Aeneas retorted before bringing her hand to his lips.

"It's however you wish to take it," the Grecian woman replied, a ghost of a smile ticking at the corner of her mouth, "but I'm giving you permission."

"Hah!" the laugh that escaped Aeneas's throat was loud and short, "As if I need your permission!" Though Aeneas shifted uncomfortably and grumbled something indiscernible. They knew the answer without it having to be spoken. Of course he had been waiting for her approval.

The silence that fell between them was short, but Aeneas had to admit it was quite possibly one of the most tense moments of his life. It was a hyperbole, yes, but it held some semblance of truth. And he didn't have to look at Hypatia to know that sort of smug satisfaction was glittering in her eyes. Oh how he hated that look. It made him want to smack her and kiss her at the same time.

"Well then!" Aeneas cleared his throat and smoothed the folds of his toga, "Time is wasting, then, isn't it?" With that, he stood. A quick, chaste kiss was pressed to his wife's cheek before he pushed his way through the crowded stands.

The hallways had become vacant, aside from the last minute stragglers scrambling to their seats. Aeneas chuckled to himself at their enthusiasm. "No, you don't want to miss this..." The crowd seemed to agree with him, what with their noise echoing in the open corridors.

It never ceased to amaze him how efficient architects could be. So many people could fit within these walls, and every one of them could be funneled in and seated within moments. It was a modern marvel if he did say so himself. And the moody Germanic who waited below should be honored to fight there. At least, so Aeneas thought.

His decent to the holding rooms was without hassle. The guards gave him one look, and stood aside without question. After all, who were they to ask anything of the great Aeneas Maximus?

Two steps past the guards, and he paused. He could feel them practically stiffen their posture. "Where is he?"

There was a moment of silence, as if the guards were debating on whether or not to ask who "he" was, and just which of them would do so. Aeneas was an incredibly intimidating man, as his reputation tended to precede him. It was not without reason, even if this was just a moment he took to revel in it. To be frank, he found it amusing.

He expressed this with a hearty laugh, one that was sure to cause the guards to tense even more. "Sorry, Sorry," Aeneas apologized with a nonchalant wave of his hand, "I suppose I should have been more specific." His throat was cleared before continuing, "The slave who is to fight the arena champion, rather than be outright executed by him? You can't miss him. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, always looks as if he's about to murder someone. Perpetually sour face. Truly unfortunate. I think it's stuck that way. Know of him?"

"Straight back," one of the guards offered, perhaps too quickly. But it was enough to cause Aeneas to stop rambling for a moment.

"Ah!" Aeneas replied, and placed his hands on his hips. "Right then. Near the gladiators, I assume..."

"Yes." The response was short and matter-of-fact. Aeneas couldn't help but give the man a lazy sort of glare. So much for his intimidation factor, if they could already speak to him as such. Then again, it was a silly question wasn't it?

The commander shifted, and tossed the drape of his toga over his shoulder. "Of course he would be. Thank you, gentlemen." With that, he turned on his heel, and continued through the dim passage to the chambers below.

He didn't have to look hard, or long, for that matter. Ansehelm was right where the guards said he would be. That typical toothy grin donned Aeneas's lips once more, and he stepped closer to the cell.

"Excited?"

The blonde slave lifted his head as Aeneas's voice reached his ears. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the wooden boards above him. A ray caught a blue eye, showing how it hardened the moment its gazed fixed on the Roman's.

Aeneas chuckled. "I'm starting to wonder if you can make any other expression."

Ansehelm did not answer. He merely shifted to stretch his legs outward in front of him, and push a braid out of his eyes.

"You should speak more." Aeneas mused, leaning against one of the bars.

"Why?" the Germanic's reply was slightly hoarse. "You speak more than enough for the two of us."

Aeneas pursed his full lips, and a shrug rippled his shoulders. "Perhaps it's best you don't then. Words like that would only get yourself in trouble."

"And I'm not already?" Ansehelm tiled his head against the wall, his expression flat. A spill of sand sifted through the planks, creating a small, brief cascade between the slave and the soldier.

Another shrug, and Aeneas was smiling again. "Possibly." Ansehelm gave the bars a lethargic kick. It caused Aeneas to take a step back. "Careful, you'll need that energy."

Something roared in the farther reaches of the holding chambers. It grew in volume for a fleeting instant before it was lost to the drone of the throng in the stadium.

"Listen..." Aeneas's grin grew ever wider, if that was possible. He leaned forward, and gripped the bars of the cell door, "Do you hear it? Do you hear them?"

Ansehelm's stare was cold, and unwavering. Of course he could hear them. A verbal answer was unnecessary.

"They want your blood to stain the ground." Aeneas returned the stare, his jaw set. "Don't give them that satisfaction. Shouldn't be hard for you. You thrive on spite, don't you?"

A crease formed between Ansehelm's brows as they furrowed. Something akin to a sneer cross his lips, and a snort that might have passed for an odd sort of laugh left his nostrils. "And just what exactly am I supposed to do?"

"Survive." That smile of Aeneas's became nigh diabolical as he pushed away, and spread his arms in a cryptic gesture.

"Also, tell me Roman," Ansehelm pulled his legs to him once more. He leaned forward to grip the bars Aeneas had just released, and pressed his face between two of them, "Why do you care so much?"

For once, Aeneas was speechless. Of course, he wouldn't admit it. Instead, he would merely continue to smile that infuriating smile.


End file.
